Too Far Gone
by SlightlyElliot
Summary: Fury is ordered to take out the infamous Hawkeye, but after seeing the young assassin's potential he makes a different call. Phil Coulson is sent to bring him in, going back to the very beginning of Clint Barton's life, discovering all the secrets in his past and unearthing things Phil had never expected to find. But will Phil get there in time, or is Barton too far gone?
1. Chapter 1

_Clint_

_The walls were so white it was hard to see where they met the floor. The table he was strapped to was also white, and the only other color in the room was from the blood they were taking out of his arm via a needle in the crook of his elbow. They had been taking the blood for some time. Clint was beginning to panic._

_._

_._

_Phil_

"You understand the assignment?" Fury asked sharply as they strode through the Helicarrier corridors towards the hanger.

"Yes sir." Phil replied. He and Fury looked even more serious than usual, and both junior and senior agents scurried to get out of their way.

"The council are all up to eliminate him. But I think that'd be a damn awful waste." Fury growled.

"Yes sir."

"I've pulled out all the stops in this one, Coulson. When I look at Clint Barton, I see potential. But I also see a hell of a lot of hard work. You sure you're up for this, Phil?" Fury glanced at the lesser agent.

"I am, sir." Phil replied firmly.

Fury nodded slowly. "And I wouldn't expect anything less." They entered the hanger, and stopped at the steps of the quinjet. "But the council are breathing down my neck. We're doing this behind their backs so you're virtually on your own with this- no help from SHIELD. If you don't think he could become and asset, you take him out. Understand?"

"I do sir."

Fury frowned. "Then good luck." He turned to leave, but not before saying, "Don't let him kill you."

Phil knew Fury was only half joking.

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Phil read the file over on the journey. He had never entered a mission with any less intel, and felt terribly under prepared - the council wanted nothing to do with this, and SHIELD had no further help to give.

The file contained basic information on Barton's childhood but went no further than the age of 14. Other than this, however, it stated the whereabouts of Barton's childhood associates, which Phil would use to evaluate whether or not Barton would be useful for the organisation. The validity of the file was also questionable- if it was correct, Barton was only 17 years old. But Phil point blank refused to believe that someone of that tender age could have had 134 kills already to his name. But if the file was correct, Phil was worried that the kid was already too far gone.

SHIELD dropped him off in Waverly, Iowa, gave him a car and then left. Phil then realised that he was fully on his own. It was actually very disconcerting- normally he would have someone over the comm. or at least a prearranged check in point. But there was nothing.

There was a SHIELD safe house- or more accurately, apartment- two blocks away from where Harold Baton, Clint Barton's father was living. Safe houses were renowned for being the most scarcely equipped places you would ever inhabit. Other than the extensive first aid kits and numerous MREs, the cupboards were bare. However, Phil didn't plan on staying too long, so this didn't bother him. He was acutely aware that the longer he took to find Barton, the more kills the assassin could have made.

Waverly was a sleepy town. The streets were wide but empty, and the whole place reminded Phil of a Wild West movie. Although it was only the late morning, the day was already beginning to get hot- the sun was beating down on the tarmac, and Phil was glad he had packed more than his usual assortment of identical black suits.

Harold Barton lived on 5th street northwest, in the same house that Clint Barton would have grown up in. It was a ten minute walk from the elementary school the assassin attended, and Phil found the whole thing completely bizarre.

The street was average. Grass grew through cracks in the sidewalk and where the kerb met the road, but it seemed like a pleasant neighbourhood. A couple of boys were kicking a ball across the street, and an old man was mowing his lawn opposite the Barton household. The other houses were neat and well looked after, with fresh, bright paint and tidy gardens.

The Barton house, however, was different. The grass was long and full of weeds, looking like it hadn't been cut in months. A banged up red truck was parked in the gravel driveway but clearly hadn't been driven for a long time. The paint on the house was peeling, and may have once been white but had now faded into a dirty gray. The windows were grimy and most of them had curtains drawn. The strangest thing, however, was the bike beside the garden path. It was nearly entirely rusted, but splatters of red pain could be seen across the handle bars. The tyres were flat and the brake cables were frayed. It looked sad and abandoned; the grass had grown through it, effectively tying it to the ground.

Baring in mind there had been no children living in this house for nine years; Phil found the bike pretty creepy.

However, the house seemed to be empty. Phil crossed the street and waved at the old man mowing the lawn to get his attention. The man stopped the lawn mower and leaned on the gate.

Phil smiled. "Morning. I don't suppose you'd know where Harold Barton would be?"

The man's face was wrinkled and weathered, but kind. However it darkened. "He'd be in town, I'd recon. Probably at a bar. Wassit for?"

Phil hesitated. Normally he would try to keep as low a profile as possible. However he needed to learn all he could about Clint Barton and this man might know something. "It's about his son, Clint Barton. Do you know of him?"

The man grimaced. "Ah the Barton boys. Yeah I knew them, pretty well in fact. Haven't seen him in a long while though. He in trouble?"

"Well, I'm trying to get him out of it. But I need to learn as much about him as possible."

The man nodded slowly. "Good kid, Clint. Didn't get a fair deal either." He glanced up at Phil, frowning. "Here, why don't you come inside? I might be able to help."

The man introduced himself as Stan, and lead Phil into the kitchen. They sat at the table, and Stan got out some lemonade with ice, because although it was cooler inside the heat was still uncomfortable. "So, what do you need to know?"

Phil picked up his glass and leaned back. "Any thing you can tell me might help."

Stan sighed deeply, and his eyes unfocused. "Clint was a little kid, you know. Shorter than the others his age, but bright. Real bright. His hair was kinda a dirty blond colour, and all over the place, in his eyes and everything. I remember my wife, Rose tried to cut it one time but it grew back so fast." Stan smiled slightly, and then grew sombre. "I never really met his mother, but he sure didn't get his temperament from his father. Clint was a good kid, painfully polite and wouldn't hurt anybody. Barney was different- much more like his father, I'd say. Taller, broader. Had a mean look in his eye, you know?" Phil nodded, and Stan continued, sighing again. "I don't think he was too good to Clint. And Mr Barton had a nasty temper, real nasty. If he got too bad Clint sometimes came round here to get out the way, and he was always welcome. But it wasn't often enough, most of the time I don't think he could get away. Harold drank, you know. But even when he was sober, he didn't do nothin' good for those kids. At first Clint just got it from his father, but when Barney grew older- and there was a big age gap between the two brothers, Barney was nearly seven years his senior, if I remember correctly. Anyway, Barney grew up and became almost as bad as his father. Clint was out of the house most of the time. He went to school early and came home late. Or he was around here, or one of his friend's houses. And even through all of this was going on, he was nearly always bright, always cheerful." Stan shook his head sorrowfully. "But something must have happened over there. It was the night their mother left- Edith, nice woman, but not too clever and couldn't stand up to Harold- she was out most of the time anyway. Clint came over the next morning- why I can still see him now, standing there all white and shaking. I don't know what drove Edith away, but Clint was never quite the same after that. We tried to ask him what happened, but he didn't tell us nothin'. He never told us nothin', though most of the time he didn't need to. It didn't take a genius to work it all out.

Not three months after that, Harold got in that car crash. Broke his back in too many places and was in hospital for too long. They took the Barton boys over to that orphanage yonder. And we never saw 'em again. See me and Rose would have looked after 'em if we could, but we didn't have that kinda money to look after two boys." Stan sighed again and looked out of the window over the garden. "I hope he did well, that Clint. He was a good kid."

For a moment they were both silent. Phil had spent plenty of time trying to work out what would drive a seventeen year old to become an assassin and knew something must have gone wrong somewhere in his childhood- that or he was just plain crazy. But he hadn't expected this. He had at least though that younger Clint would be more of a Barney character. Eight year old Clint seemed like a completely different person to the Clint Barton today, who killed for money.

Stan looked up at Phil seriously. "I don't know what that boy is doing now. But you look an awful lot like one of those government people, so I suppose it can't be anything good. But please, whatever you're intending to do, remember that people don't always make their own decisions. Often other people make them instead. Do what ever you can to help that boy, no matter what he's done. He's a good kid."

Phil didn't have the heart to tell Stan what Clint had become, but thanked him and then headed into town. He really did not want to talk to Harold Barton after hearing what Stan had to say about him, but he was also suddenly far more determined. He didn't know why or how that little eight year old had changed so much into what he was today, but Phil was sure going to try to find out.

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_Clint_

They'd taken maybe two pints of his blood, and then the flash backs started. He wasn't sure whether it was because of the lack of sleep, or the blood loss, or the blinding white room, but they were so real he could almost smell the alcohol on his father's breath.

_Clint was doing his homework when the front door slammed. Heavy feet dragged across the carpet-less hall and Barney, who was reading a comic in the corner of the room smirked at Clint. _

_Clint pushed his head down and concentrated on the wavering letters in front of him. If he was lucky, his father would have drunk enough to just go to his room and fall asleep straight away. And Clint really, __**really**__ wanted to be lucky. _

_But the living room door opened slowly. Clint stood slowly, hands shaking. He darted to the other side of the room and hid behind the sofa. His father stumbled in- his face was covered in shadow and Clint couldn't see his features. He was impossibly tall, his head nearly touching the ceiling. He moved away from the door, and Clint was getting ready to run when Barney pushed him into his father's path. Clint fell, and then rolled to his feet and sprinted up the stairs. He had been hoping his father would let him run, but he could hear the heavy footsteps and laboured breathing behind him. Too late, he remembered that he shouldn't have ran upstairs- years ago he'd got so scared he'd risked a jump out of the window to get away, and broken his left ankle. Since then, he'd remembered to run out of the back door and down the garden, into the woods behind the house. Then he could hide in a tree, where he could see his father coming. But tonight he'd been so preoccupied with the science homework that he'd forgotten. Silently he cursed himself for being so stupid. _

_At the top of the stairs he ran into his bedroom, and wriggled under his bed. He used to have a lock on the door which he had put in himself, but it had only lasted a few weeks before his father had knocked the door down, and it had broken. _

_His father stood in the door way, his heavy workman's boots shoulder width apart, and his hands on his hips. "Come out." He growled._

_Slowly, Clint crawled out from under the bed. He'd learn years ago that it was best not to argue. _

_Afterwards, his father had shut him in the blanket box in the bath room. It was completely dark, and he couldn't get out as it was padlocked shut. His lip felt as if it was bleeding, but he knew his father had made sure other than that not to his him anywhere visible, so that he could go to school tomorrow. His father preferred it when he was out of the way. _

_Clint pushed his fist into his mouth and curled up in a ball. He never used to be claustrophobic, but he suspected that he had developed it after being shut in the box so many times. He could feel the panic tightening his chest, but made sure not to cry- that would only make things so much worse. Clint was a man. Men were brave, not afraid, and did not cry like girls. It was five hours before his mother came home and let him out, but Clint didn't let a single tear fall._

_._

_._

_Phil_

Stan had given Phil directions to the bar that Clint's father would probably be inhabiting. It was in a shadier part of town- not that this worried Phil, who been to places far shadier than Waverly. The bar was a long, low building, and little of it could be seen from through the grimy windows.

Harold Barton clearly never fully recovered from the car crash. He sat hunched over on a bar stool, leaning heavily on the bar. A pair of crutches lay at his feet. Clint Barton's file contained a grainy picture of Harold, who in his day had been tall and fit, with wide shoulders and a sturdy build. Now however, he was anything but as intimidating. He had put on weight, and the fat rolled over his leather belt. His hair had turned gray, receding from the centre, and judging by the way he was stooped he had developed a sort of a hunch. Even so, he certainly had a violent air about him, and the other people in the bar seemed to be giving him a wide berth. Phil certainly wouldn't have wanted him as a father. He had also decided that Harold wouldn't be at all as honest and open as Stan, therefore was going for a different approach.

He took a seat behind Harold, who didn't look up from where he was glaring into his beer glass. Phil cleared his throat, and Harold looked up. "Here," He said. "Aren't you Barney Barton's father?"

Harold squinted at Phil with piggy eyes. "What of it?" He growled.

"Well my boy was friendly with yours' when he was a lad, if I remember rightly. How's he doing nowadays?"

Harold sighed and rotated his jaw. "I ain't seen him in a long time."

"Really? Hey, can I buy you a drink?" Phil asked.

Harold seemed to grow more interested at this. After the bar man came over and gave Harold another beer at Phil's expense, Phil tried again. "So what's he up to, do you know?"

Harold took a large mouthful of beer. "Joined the army, last time I heard."

"And didn't you have a younger son?" Phil asked as the bar man handed him his own drink.

Harold nodded slowly. "Clint. Hu, haven't heard of him for nearly nine years."

Phil raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? How come?"

Harold lowered his glass. "Clint weren't such a good kid. Barney however, Barney was alright."

Phil nodded. "Yeah, I could always see a bit of you in Barney. He was a good kid."

Harold nodded again. "Barney took after me. Clint, hell I don't know. Not after me, for sure. And he was a right smart ass, never could shut up. Not like Edith, either."

Phil glanced over at him. "You have trouble from Clint or something?"

Harold shook his head and grimaced. "See, a boy's gotta be brave, strong. If aint, then he just needs toughening up a little. Thing is, Clint got a lot of toughening up, yet it never did nothin'."

"Toughening up?"

Harold had finished his beer, and gestured for another. "Sure. Something my father taught me, and his father taught him, so on. See the world aint a nice place. Yet you gotta go out there scared of nothin'. I help by makin' 'em braver. If they stop bein' scared 'o me, they aint gonna be scared of anythin' out there. Barney got it real fast, by the time he was seven I could leave him alone. He used to help out with Clint a little. See Clint never got it. Clint was always scared." Harold's speech was becoming slurred, and Phil wondered how much he had already drank. The barman was keeping an eye on him, in a way that suggested that this happened often.

"So Clint wasn't like you at all?" Phil asked slowly.

"Nah. He wouldn't of hurt nobody. He was littler too, and skinny. Nothin' to 'im. He was real fast, proper little runner. Towards the end he could even outrun me." Harold chuckled slowly.

Phil put down his glass, wary that Harold would see his hand shaking with anger.

"Towards the end?"

Harold darkened. "Yeah. Car crash, I got all bust up. They took my boy away, and Clint too. That orphanage out of town. There for a year or two before I heard they ran away. And I never heard from them again, till Barney writes and says he's joining the army. After that, nothin'. Just me up in that house now. Just me."

Harold stared into the depths of his beer glass and didn't say anymore. Phil knew he should try to get more out of him, but the man was becoming incoherent and quite frankly, Phil was worried that if he stayed in his presence for much longer he might end up punching him in the face.

Phil reflected on the way back to the flat, that none of this was what he had been expecting- not that he had known what to expect at all. But Clint Barton's childhood seemed to be tragic, and Phil was almost beginning to pity him. He wondered that maybe if someone had stepped in to help him before it was too late, he wouldn't have become what he was today. Two people had now told him that Barton would never hurt anybody- so how had he become such a master assassin?


	2. Chapter 2

Hello! Thanks for reading chapter 1, but before we continue I'm going to explain a few things that were unclear before. So basically Phil is going all over the place, effectively following Clint's childhood. He's doing this to try and find out why Clint became the assassin Hawkeye to see if he could become an agent of SHIELD. Whist this is going on, Clint is holed up somewhere (I'm not saying where or why- you'll find out later) and is having flashbacks of the events that Phil is discovering. I want to show Clint's childhood through Clint's eyes, but Phil's as well. Sorry if that was confusing, I should have explained in the first chapter- but feel free to ask me any questions, I'll be happy to explain. Oh and a couple of warnings- angst, angst angst, and I have the medical knowledge of a sloth, so I heavy rely on Google and Wikipedia (and Google maps for Phil's little tour of America)

Sadly I do not own the Avengers, Marvel or any of their characters.

Please review, reviews are awesome and I'm always open to advice.

Thanks!

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_Clint_

Clint's peripheral vision was beginning to narrow, and his panic was building. He desperately wanted to sleep, but for some reason, possibly from the blood flowing still flowing out of his arm, he couldn't. Still no one had come to talk to him. Normally in situations like this someone came to get information out of him but this seemed to just be punishment. But no matter what they did to him, he wouldn't kill the girl. He didn't kill children. He wouldn't- at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

_Clint could never remember much of the Peter Moore's home for boys. This worried him slightly- it had been two years of his life, and yet he could only had a handful of memories. But one in particular stood out._

_It was his third night. It was strange sleeping in a room with so many other boys. He had his own bed and a blanket box beside it, but everything else was communal. There were about 30 boys in the home in all, though they were split up into two groups- the younger boys and then the boys over 13 years of age. Barney was with the other group, and Clint couldn't express how ecstatic he was to get away from his father and his brother at the same time. _

_There were 18 other boys in his dormitory. And yet there hadn't been much socializing they woke at seven and went to bed at eight. Their free time was spent doing chores such as cooking or cleaning, or outside work like milking the cows or feeding the animals. The home was partially self sufficient, but the meals were measly anyway so that wasn't so hard. Clint was very used to measly meals, of course._

_After dinner time they had about an hour which was spent in the common room, where boys would read comics or books which they had brought on their days out- Clint was told that they went into the city once a month and spent any money their relatives may have sent them. Or the boys just talked or played board games with missing pieces. Then of course there was school- Clint was a little worried about starting a new school, as he was small and easily picked on. But it was the holidays at the moment, and school didn't start again for another week. _

_Around 11 o'clock, late at night, someone came in. His breathing was slow but audible, and as he was silhouetted in the light from the hall way, Clint recognized him as Mr Peter Moore. Clint hadn't officially met him yet as the only adult he had talked too had been the matron. _

_As he got closer to Clint's bed, Clint realized that Mr Moore also had a distinctive smell, sort of musty but sweet at the same time. Unlike his father, Clint could easily remember what Mr Moore had looked like. He had been very tall and thin, with narrow waxy features. His nose had been long and prominent and his skin was very pale. His eyes had been watery and a peculiar shade of washed out blue. But however hard he tried, Clint could never remember what had happened next, or any of the other frequent nights. Of course he knew __**what**__ had happened- though at the time he had been naive and really didn't know what it was until a while later. But he had no memory of it actually happening. Sometimes he had dreams which vividly sketched the entire thing out for him, but he could never remember the events of those specific nights, other than the smell and the sound of Mr Moore's labored breathing, which he had learnt to dread._

_._

_._

_Phil_

That evening Phil finished his report, detailing all that he had discovered about Clint Barton. He left nothing out, because the report was going straight to the top, and if there was one man Phil trusted over all others, it was Nick Fury.

He spent the night at the safe house/apartment and then left the in the morning. The next event in Clint Barton's life was his two year stay at Peter Moore's home for boys on the outskirts of Waterloo, a city a 30 minute drive away from Waverly. However, the orphanage had been shut down only a year after Barney and Clint left due to lack of funding. The building had been demolished and an apartment block had been put up in its place, but Phil had one other lead to follow up about this particular period in Barton's life.

SHIELD had managed to pull up the files on the other boys who had been in the orphanage at the same time as Clint. One such boy, named Jason Carter, had been fostered shortly after the close of the orphanage and was living on the south side of Waterloo, and would have been the same age as Clint.

Phil knocked, and a few moments later Marie, Jason's foster mother opened the door. The file said she was 40 years old, though her curly shoulder length brown hair had yet to turn gray, and her face was kindly, round and unwrinkled. She took in Phil's pristine black suit and frowned. "Can I help you?"

"Marie Reed? I'm Phil Coulson from the FBI. I'm investigated a number of cases involving Peter Moore's home for boys, which I believe your foster son, Jason Carter attended in 1994. Would I be able to speak to him?"

Marie took in Phil's fake ID and her frowned deepened. "Is he in trouble?"

Phil shook his head. "Not at all. We're investigating the actions of Peter Moore, the head of the orphanage. I only need to talk to Jason as he may have some information."

Marie nodded slowly. "Come in." She led Phil into her kitchen, a sizable room that had a very cluttered feel. Marie seemed to have been half way through the dishwasher, so the work surface beside the sink was laden with dishes. The fridge was covered in magnetic letters and photographs of two boys, one about 17, presumably Jason, and another maybe 8. "I have two sons, both in permanent foster care. That means I will care for them until they reach adulthood. Jason only has a year left with me before he's leaving for university- he's studying maths, you know." She smiled slightly. "Though of course, he'll always be welcome back." Marie ushered Phil into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. She heaved a simply astounding amount of A level maths homework off the table and onto the already cluttered work surface, giving Phil a bit of room. "Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee?"

Phil smiled and shook his head. "Thanks, but I shouldn't be long here."

Marie nodded. "Should I go and get Jason?"

Phil hesitated. "Actually, would I be able to talk to you first?" Marie turned round and leaned on the work surface behind her.

"Do you know if anything… unusual happened up at the orphanage?" Phil asked.

Marie frowned, and was silent for a second. "They say that the orphanage just ran out of funding. But I heard that it was something else- very hush hush, you know, and only a rumor. Nothing was ever confirmed, but that man, Peter Moore… well, I don't know anything for certain. But Jason came to me when he was 11, and he wasn't quite right, you know?"

Phil frowned and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "In what way?"

"Well, he had lots of little things he didn't like. I learnt not to come into his bedroom at night without knocking, for instance. For some reason that always freaked him out. Mr Coulson, as a foster mother, I have to have a certain level of understanding in child psychology, and the signs certainly weren't good. I told Jason many times that that he could talk to me if he wanted, but he never did, and I didn't push him. Gradually, he got better. I don't know what Mr Moore did to those boys, but I think he left Jason mostly alone."

Phil sighed. He realized that this stage in Clint's life didn't seem to be all happiness and rainbows either. It seemed as if Clint had managed to get away from his father only to run into a certain Peter Moore. "Thank you, Miss Reed, I'd like to talk to Jason now."

Marie nodded and bustled out of the room. Phil heard her go up the stairs, and then come back down with someone else.

Jason was tall and thin, with an athletic build. His hair was brown and messy, and glasses with thick black frames covered his brown eyes. He grinned nervously at Phil, pushing his hands into his jean pockets.

Phil moved forward to shake his hand. "Hi, I'm Phil Coulson from the FBI."

Jason nodded warily. "Yeah, Marie explained." He took a seat opposite Coulson at the table.

Marie glanced at them both, and then said, "Should I leave you to it?"

Phil smiled. "Yes, please." Marie left, closing the door behind her.

Jason exhaled uneasily and straightened imaginary creases on his jeans. "So… what do you want to know?"

Phil folded his hands in front of him. "Anything you can remember about the orphanage. What was Peter Moore like?"

Jason swallowed. "Uh, Moore wasn't a nice guy. Well, he was pedophile." Jason said frankly. "And I don't mean as in he looked at us funny. I mean it literally."

Phil nodded slowly. "What did he do?"

Jason paled instantly. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he laughed shakily. "I get that you're the government, and what you're doing is important. But... please, don't ask me that question. Don't ask me that."

Phil hesitated, stuck between pushing Jason into telling him more, and letting it go, but decided on the latter. "I understand. Do you remember a boy called Clint Barton?"

Jason looked surprised at this sudden change of subject. "Clint Barton? Sure, I remember Clint. Everyone knew of Clint."

"What do you mean by that?"

Jason looked away from Phil and bit his lips. "Moore… he always picked on the new kids. But Clint… well he never really left Clint alone."

Phil sighed. Once again, he hadn't quite been expecting this. "OK… how often did Moore pick on Clint?"

Jason rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "At least once every other week, I'd say. Mostly more often."

"And how did Clint feel about it?"

Jason chewed his lips again. "He was only a little kid, same age as me. At first I don't think he got what was going on. But he worked it out eventually."

"What was he like? Clint, I mean." Phil asked.

Jason frowned, and studied the table top intently. "At first he was a nice kid. Cheerful, you know. Clever, and funny. And he was a good shot- no matter what he was throwing, he never missed. Everyone always wanted him on their baseball team. But after a while, I don't know, he kinda gave up. I think his life before the orphanage hadn't been too good. So at first he was happy to get away. But then I think he realized that the orphanage was just as bad as wherever he'd been before. He just sort of… he went all quiet. Before, he would never shut up. He was always the one talking even after the lights went out at night. But he changed. He spent any free moment off on his own in the woods, trying to get away from Moore I guess. And he read a lot- I suppose it meant he could get out of his head. He avoided everyone else, and we didn't talk to him."

Phil sighed. "Was Clint ever violent?"

To his surprise, Jason smirked. "Oh yeah, he could be. I mean, we were a group of about 30 boys, so fights weren't too unusual. There was this time Clint got in a fight with some other kid- I can't remember what over, I think the other kid insulted his mom or something like that. So Clint just punched the kid in the face- wasn't much of a fight, I guess, as the kid backed right off. Clint looked a bit surprised at what he'd done, actually. Scared, maybe. But we all learnt not to get in his way after that, and he didn't get into many other fights. But after a year or so of being there, he could get real angry real fast. I guess he had a nasty temper, and after Moore pissed him off so bad for so long he couldn't control it anymore."

"He had a brother, Barney. Do you know what his and Clint's relationship was like? Did Barney know what Moore was doing to his brother?"

Jason turned bitter. "Oh yeah, he knew. But he never stood up for Clint. Barney was a big guy, muscles and everything. He was angry too, bit like Clint apart from Clint was alright but he'd get angry real fast and it would last for an hour or so before he'd calm down. Barney was just kinda like, low level anger all the time. He used to pick on the littler kids, but Clint tended to stick up for them, even if he got beat up for it. They didn't get on at all, so we were surprised when they ran away together. But Clint just wanted to get away, even if it was with Barney."

"Why didn't Clint run away sooner? Couldn't he have managed on his own?"

"Nah, Clint was really independent. I recon he had to fend for himself lots before he came to the orphanage. He was only a little guy, but he'd of been alright. I don't know…" Jason looked uncertain for a moment. "This isn't definite, OK? But… when Moore was picking on Clint, he wasn't picking on the other kids so much. And Clint, well, he could kinda deal with it. He was tough, maybe he'd had some kinda of abuse before. Maybe he stuck around for a while so Moore would leave the others alone. But I don't know. That's just what I'd think."

Phil nodded slowly. "OK. Would you say Clint was a good guy? Or was he more like Barney?"

Jason shook his head. "Clint wasn't anything like Barney. Barney was mean. Clint… well, Clint wouldn't hurt anyone unless they hurt him first- physically or verbally. He only did it to protect himself. And he often stuck up for the littler kids when the bigger ones picked on them. He was at the orphanage for a year, but half way through he gave up. But even then, he was alright. If he was in a real good mood- which wasn't that often, but it still happened- he could joke around a bit. And he was funny, real funny. He could make us all laugh if he wanted to. I think he just wanted Moore to leave us all alone. He didn't like Moore doing what he did to him, but I think he preferred it if it was to him than to any of the others."

"Did you hear anything from Clint or Barney after they ran away?"

Jason shook his head again. "Nothing. I don't know where he went either. But the orphanage was closed just a year after they left- and it was 'cause they found out what Moore had been doing, _not_ because of 'lack of funding'" Jason said bitterly. "But I often thought that if only Clint had waited, he could have got adopted or fostered, or _something_. And then he could have had an actual home. But then again, I don't think he could have held on that long."

Phil nodded slowly. "Thank you for your help, I think I have all I need." He moved to get up.

Jason frowned as they walked towards the door. "I know you probably can't tell me, but what are you doing with Clint?"

Phil opened the door, but hesitated in the doorway, looking back at Jason. "At first, I was just trying to find him. Now, I'm going to help him."

Jason swallowed, and nodded. "Please, do all you can. Clint was a good guy, just life was too harsh on him."

Phil smiled sadly, and nodded. "I will. And thank you for your help. I'm just sorry this all happened. And I'm sorry to bring it all back up again."

Jason smiled nervously, and sighed shakily. "It's OK, I understand. Clint helped all of us; it's only fair that I help him back."


	3. Chapter 3

_Clint_

Clint was fairly certain he wasn't actually sleeping as every time he awoke he felt just as bad, if not worse, as he had been previously. But Clint kept falling in and out of consciousness almost uncontrollably. However, it was a welcomed break from the flash backs and hallucinations- only a few moments ago he had opened his eyes to see Peter Moore standing on the other side of the room.

He was also beginning to worry about the lack of food- Clint was fairly certain he hadn't eaten in at least three days, and although he had at first been able to ignore the hunger pangs, they were becoming almost unbearable. Each contraction lasted only about 30 seconds, but they were becoming more frequent and severe. But he wasn't too worried- the blood loss would kill him before the hunger did.

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_The rain splattered in the mud, making it as slippery as oil. It was sticky too, making it hard for Clint to run. Thunder rolled overhead and he could smell the tangy scent of lightning. The clouds were low, swollen and purple, blocking out the moon and rendered the night almost pitch black. Clint slipped and fell, clambered to his feet and ran on. His clothes were sticking to his skin and his limbs were beginning to tire. His legs were tight and cramped, and he stumbled, this time not getting up quick enough. Thunder rolled again, and someone grabbed him from behind and pushed him into the taught material of one of the tents_

_Jacques's fist swung into Clint's ribs. "Are you stupid? Haven't you had enough trouble from men like me? Haven't you learnt to keep your head down?"_

_Clint doubled over, gasping._

"_Money makes the world go round, Clint." Said another voice. Clint straightened to find Barney standing behind Jacques, a canvas sack slung over one shoulder, with his other hand stuck jauntily in his pocket. He was grinning. _

_Clint genuinely hadn't talked to Barney for about 3 months. Barney was just a stage hand- Clint, however, was a performer. Their lives at the circus were vastly different, and Clint had been avidly avoiding his brother anyway._

_Barney laughed. "Hey, don't look so surprised. It's not as if you expected any better of me, right?" His face darkened and he approached Clint slowly. "No, you never expected anything good of me. Clint was always better than Barney."_

_Clint just stared. "Well it's not as if you ever proved me wrong."_

_Barney glanced at Jacques, and the two of them seemed to engage in a brief, silent conversation. Barney handed the sack, which jingled ominously, to Jacques and stood in front of Clint. Jacques stepped back to give Barney some room, rocking back on his heals nonchalantly. _

_Barney grinned- and it was a dark, humourless grin. He tweaked Clint's nose, and the younger boy flinched. "Ah Clint. I would say I'm gonna miss you, but really I've been trying to get rid of you for some time." Barney didn't say anything for a moment, before punching Clint in the ribs as Jacques had done. Clint hadn't been expecting this, and fell to the ground. "You're such a prat, Clint. You look after other people too much, that's why you get in so much shit. See I've learnt a vital life lesson, which I'm sure you'll learn some day too. Always look after the number 1- and the number 1 is always you." Barney hauled his brother to his feet again, only to kick him in the stomach. "You know, you used to fight back. You used to run from dad- but you always let Moore get what he wanted. Why was that? Did you give up? You're not fighting back now either. Didn't dad teach you anything? A man has to stick up for himself. To be brave, strong. You're such a pussy, Clint." Clint realised that Barney was now nearly as strong as his father had been. And Barney wasn't holding back either- he didn't care if anyone saw Clint's bruises. Barney swung again and kicked him in the knee, but then yanking him up by his collar as he fell. Barney laughed a strange, relived laugh. "Oh how __**long**__ I have been waiting to do this." He punched Clint in the face, and blood ran from his nose and mouth. _

_Behind him, Jacques rolled his eyes. "Come on, Barney. You've had your fun."_

_Barney nodded, and tenderly framed Clint's face with his hands. Clint tried to pull away, but wasn't strong enough. "So, it seems that here we part." He smiled kindly, which was confusing until Clint realised he was only mocking him. "So it seems you'll get away from all of us at last- dad, Moore, Jacques, me. 14 years and you'll be free at last. But not really- because they'll always be in here, right?" Barney grinned manically, and tapped Clint on the forehead. His older brother sighed happily, and punched Clint in the face again. This time he fell, and no one caught him. He landed on the ground and a hard, round wooden tent peg hit him at the base of his head. For a moment everything flashed a blinding, bright light. Pain exploded through his head and down his neck, the most frightening, white hot pain Clint had ever felt. His vision swirled, and the last thing he saw before blacking out was watching his last remaining family member walking away._

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_Phil_

Joseph Kennedy lived in the neighbouring state of Nebraska, on the outskirts of Hastings. It was a six hour journey, but due to SHIELD's futuristic cars, he made it in five, arriving at Hastings at four in the afternoon. After a quick and frankly disgusting late lunch at a diner, Phil made his way to Kennedy's house.

As he knocked on the door, Phil realised that he was beginning to get nervous for several different reasons. Firstly, Barton's life so far had been pretty horrific, and he was wary that it would only get worse. He was hoping that as the boy had finally gotten away from the dangerous men in his life, he might have been able to finally experience a decent childhood. However, if Stan and Harold were anything to go by, Barney was nearly as bad as his father- Phil was all too worried that as Barney would have been 19, he would just evolve into a younger Harold Barton. Also, Kennedy was the last lead Phil had, so if he had no information of Barton's current whereabouts, the case would be dead. Phil had realised that he no longer wanted to find Barton to recruit him for the good of the organisation, or even just to safe the lives of his future targets. No, he just wanted to help the kid. One of SHIELD's first rules was not to get emotionally involved in a case. But Phil was way beyond emotionally involved- he was emotionally compromised.

Phil was torn from his thoughts by the door opening. Joseph Kennedy was an Irish man who had been a performed at the circus whist the Barton boys had been there. He had been 34 at the time, and five years later, he didn't look much different. He was very tall, with a chest as broad as a barrel. His hair was thick and back, as coarse and wiry as thatch. His face was weathered and brown, and although his thick black eyebrows were knitted into a frown, he did not look like an unkind man.

Phil smiled and stuck out his hand. "Joseph Kennedy? I'm Phil Coulson from the FBI. I'm investigating Clint Barton. He performed in Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders from 1997 until the winter of 2000, and I believe you were also working there at the time. Would I be able to ask you some questions?"

Kennedy's face grew wary, and he didn't shake Phil's hand. "What do you want with Clint?" He asked cautiously.

Phil hesitated. "Mr Kennedy, this is a very delicate matter. Would I be able to come in?"

Kennedy started at Phil for a moment, as if trying to detected threat in his face. Then, he stood aside for Phil to enter.

Kennedy's house was very small, and although Hastings wasn't far away, the building could have been mistaken for being in the countryside. The kitchen and lounge were in the same room, and Phil and Kennedy took seats on opposite sides of the dinning table.

Kennedy staring intently at Phil for a moment, before speaking. "I don't want to say anything before I know all the facts. Clint was a good lad, and I don't want to get him into any more trouble than he's already in. How much do you know about Clint?"

"What makes you think he's in trouble?" Phil asked.

"Answer my questions first, and then I'll answer yours." Kennedy replied steadily.

Phil hesitated. To tell Kennedy about the case would be going against yet more SHIELD rules. Then again, he seemed to know a little already, and this was Phil's last lead. If he balanced up both sides of this- The safety of Barton's future targets, his potential for working for SHIELD and the kid's wellbeing over breaking a few more rules- there really wasn't any contest. After all, they were more guidelines than actual rules. Phil nodded, and then spoke. "I know some details of his childhood that I am unwilling to share with you simply for his privacy. I also know he is currently working as a freelance assassin under the alias of Hawkeye, killing his targets faultlessly with a bow and arrow."

To Phil's surprise, Kennedy smiled slightly. "Aye, he was always good at archery. And I can tell you that you seem to have your facts straight. But what are you "investigating" him for?"

Phil paused again. "He has great potential. We'd like to recruit him."

Kennedy smiled again, and narrowed his eyes. "You're not the FBI."

Phil didn't reply- it wasn't really a question anyway, more of a statement.

"So you mean him no harm?" Kennedy pressed on

Phil shook his head. "No. But if he carries on the way he is and I can't make him see sense, well, I can't promise that he'll be ok."

Kennedy nodded slowly. "Aye. Well it is about time someone helped out Clint Baron. I knew of his new career choice. The Amazing Hawkeye was his stage name at Carson's, where he performed with a bow and arrow. The business of a performer is somewhat… behind the lines, outside the rest of society. And on the outside you hear things, such as a new assassin unique as Hawkeye"

Phil nodded. "Did you know Clint well?"

Kennedy frowned. "I knew him a little more than anyone else, but I suppose that was simply because I was more perceptive, and looked out for him a little more. But no one really knew Clint."

"What do you mean by that?"

Kennedy leaned back in his chair. "Clint was quiet. He didn't talk much, stayed out of the way most of the time, seemed to prefer to be on his own. Didn't trust anyone at all. So no one ever got to know him."

"Did you ever suspect there was anything unusual about Clint?"

"Sure. I mean, Clint wasn't a happy kid that much was obvious. There were a lot of things he didn't like- physical contact, people approaching him from behind, coming in when he was sleeping. Oh and he slept bad too, maybe two of three hour a night. And nasty nightmares, I think. You could tell when he'd had a bad night- he'd be extra distant. I remember once he must have had a real bad one, he was white and shaking all day and didn't talk at all. He was very wary and detached. Sometimes he'd just go into these moods, and he'd sit somewhere quiet and not move for hours and hours. You'd talk to him and he wouldn't respond at all. It was like he couldn't even hear us. I don't know what he was thinking about- or even if he was thinking at all."

"What was his relationship with Barney Barton like?"

"Pretty much shattered. Clint trusted Barney about as far as he could throw him- and Clint was a little guy, Barney was proper big. There was definitely something between the two brothers. They'd get into fights sometimes, but mostly they just wouldn't talk at all. Clint just didn't like Barney- plain as that. I think he was kinda bitter towards him. But Barney seemed to properly hate Clint. When they fought Barney would hit him _really_ hard, and someone would always have to intervene to break them up. Barney just always looked at Clint like he really wanted to hurt him. I guess there may have been some jealousy there- Barney was just a stagehand, but Clint was a real natural performer. He could do anything- the trapeze, gymnastics, acrobatics, fire eating or breathing, knife throwing, but archery was his real skill. He could have been the centre of attention if he wanted, but he clearly didn't, and just stayed out of the way."

"How did Clint and Barney turn up at the circus? Were you aware that they'd run away?"

"Oh sure. The 1980s and 90s were a dying age of the circus, and we were always up for more help. We never got many runaways- least not at those times. But Barney was 17 and nearly old enough to leave the orphanage anyway, so there was no point turning him in. And well, something had defiantly happened to Clint at the orphanage, and I figured that the circus was better for him than there, so Carson turned a blind eye."

"How did Clint get into performing? How did he start archery?"

"There was a man called Jacques, he had a swordsman act. Thing is it was a bit dull, and needed new life. So Jacques lined up all the kids- children of people in the circus, mostly- and tested them a bit, you know, their acrobatic skills, co-ordination, things like that. Clint came out top easily- he was really fast and agile. Strong too, and pretty skinny- he could lift his own weight easily. Then he did the knife throwing. I mean, if Clint was feeling good he'd sometimes play basketball with the other kids, so we knew he was a good shot. But hell, we didn't know he was _that_ good. I can still remember it perfectly. He threw 6 knives. All of them hit the target, the last 2 at the very centre. Jacques got him practicing immediately and within half an hour he was hitting bulls-eye every time- and literally at the very, very centre. But knife throwing was my act, so not what Jacques was looking for. So then we got the bow out of the props case- old, beat up thing that no one had used in years. He found the bow a little harder- the string was too taut and he wasn't strong enough to pull it back all the way. But Jacques had seen him with the knives, and wasn't going give up on him yet. He told us all to leave and for the next month or so I don't think I really saw Clint and Jacques much apart- and I don't know how Clint felt about this, baring in mind what the kid was like. Anyway, before our first performance of the season we always had a full dress rehearsal. So we were in some field in the middle of central America- Carson was the only one who always seemed to know where we were- and we got the whole thing set up, the big top, the trapeze, the tight rope and so on.

Clint's set was about halfway through the day, if I remember rightly. Those rehearsals were always pretty stressful. We didn't perform during 3 months of winter- not enough business- so we were always pretty rusty. We were running behind per usual so it was very sort of "get on, perform, get off", no messing around. At first he did the trapeze and the tightrope, which were brilliant, as we were all expecting. He once told me he liked being up high, so I'm sure it appealed to him. Then the archery act- and Jacques had pulled out all the stops. Clint would shoot blindfolded, behind his back, bounce arrows off other stuff, shoot things in midair, whist one the actual trapeze... I really can't describe it properly, but it was pretty spectacular. And he never missed, of course. I remember for the briefest moment after his acts, whether it was the trapeze or archery- and a couple of months later he started doing knife acts, fiery things, so on- well he always looked content, happy, even. It only lasted for less than 30 seconds and then the old Clint would come back.

I think the circus lifestyle was good for him. We were always on the move, and always, always busy. Whether it was practicing or performing, setting up, packing away, there was never a still moment. We were so busy we barely had time to think, and I think the last think Clint needed to be doing was thinking. He was worn out, but he was happy, I think- at least, as happy as he was going to be. He slept better, too. And when he had nightmares he went shooting, instead of just sitting there doing nothing. Whatever you're going to do with Clint, keep him busy. That lad needs to be kept busy."

Phil nodded slowly. But he couldn't help thinking that Clint's current career involved an awful lot of just waiting around for your target to appear, and wasn't really busy at all. "Would you say Clint was a good guy?"

Kennedy frowned, and was silent for a moment. When he did speak, it was slowly, and carefully. "I think Clint was a good guy that the world made bad. Sometimes, very rarely, he was happy and acted almost like a normal kid. Almost, but not quite. He'd play baseball and basketball with the others, and he'd joke around. But that wasn't often. He could get angry fast, and hell he would be _really_ angry. He certainly had a lot of stuff going on in his head. But he was quiet, lonely and very, _very_ untrustworthy. Oh and independent- no one looked after him and he seemed to think he could manage fine on his own. Though to be honest I think he needed someone to watch his back once in a while. I don't think he especially missed the support though, because he never seemed to have had it- you can't miss something you never had."

"Did anyone ever talk to him about how he felt?"

Kennedy shook his head. "The circus wasn't exactly a lovey dovey environment. Ultimately, it was a work place. We were just there to put on a show, there weren't exactly any group counselling sessions. At the time I thought this was a good idea- Clint surely didn't want to talk about his problems. I mean, he didn't _talk_. But reflecting on it, I think he just didn't talk because he didn't trust us. I tried to watch his back, and maybe he needed more than that. Maybe I should have been more of a fatherly figure instead of a distant sort of friend. I probably should have tried to talk to him. But would he have actually told me anything?" Kennedy shrugged. "I doubt it. I worried about him, but not excessively. I wanted to make sure he was ok- well he wasn't- but it was all inside. I don't know how to deal with that kind of thing. I think it'd all just been building up and up inside him and he had no way of getting it out. Keeping busy seemed to bury it down a bit further, but they say it isn't good to bury things. But it was a very masculine environment- well there were women there too, but I more mean that we were there to get the job done, not to talk about feelings."

Phil nodded slowly. "Do you think Clint would ever hurt anyone? I mean, today he's an assassin. Could you see a killer inside that kid back then?"

Kennedy frowned and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I think before, Clint tried to protect other people. But I also think that whatever had happened to him killed this off. He was reduced into just trying to protect himself. If Barney ever picked on one of the other kids, Clint would stand up for them sometimes. But only if he was around, or if he was in the right mindset. If he got angry enough, someone else had to stop him doing something stupid- he really didn't seem to be able to control it. But afterwards he usually regretted whatever he'd done. So I think he'd do whatever he had to do to survive. And if killing people was the only way to do it, well, I don't know. Maybe I wouldn't put it past him."

"You said Clint seemed to be enjoying the circus- why did he leave?"

Kennedy's eyes darkened and he was silent for a moment. "…I'd have thought you'd know this already."

Phil frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if you're looking for something that pushed Clint over the edge, this was properly it." Kennedy sighed heavily, and leaned forward so that his elbows rested on the table. Subconsciously, Phil leaned forward too. "It was the winter of the year 2000, December, if I remember correctly. We were 2 months into our break, so Clint wasn't doing too good- he'd get restless during the breaks. There was a lot less travelling, and nothing much to do put practice and perfect our acts. Of course Clint's act was pretty much perfect already- but this just drove him to do more and more extreme, crazy things. Sometime's he'd get hurt, but never that badly so no one told him to stop." Kennedy grimaced. "I suppose if Clint came out with a better act than before, then everyone was happy, regardless of whether he got hurt in the process. Anyway, it was late evening; dark and stormy, raining so hard you couldn't see a metre in front of your face. I never got the full story out of Clint, but from what I can gather, he caught Jacques and Barney stealing from Carson. Clint was always up for a fight with Barney, so I suspect he confronted them. What happened next, I don't know, but it resulted in Jacques and Barney chasing Clint. Normally he could have outrun them easily, but it was wet and the rain had made the mud like cement- and they caught him. Jacques stood back while Barney beat up his little brother for a bit- don't look so surprised, this sort of thing wasn't so unusual. And anyway, it gets worse.

So Barney said some things- I don't know exactly what and I don't think I want to, but it was something along the lines of how much he hated Clint and how Clint should just keep his head down, and look after himself instead of worrying about other people all the time. Then he punched Clint in the face, and the kid fell over backwards. We used big, thick wooden pegs to hold up the tents and Clint fell on one. It hit him at the base of his head.

Fiona, the cook found him in the end, knocked out in the rain. She brought him to me and it didn't look great- a lot of blood all over his face and possibly a couple of cracked ribs. I wasn't worried about his head at that point. But then he woke up- and that's the only time I saw Clint look properly scared. He couldn't hear. At first we thought it would be temporary, so we kept an eye on him for a couple of weeks. And in those two weeks I saw the fastest decline I've ever seen in anyone ever. But the 14th day you wouldn't have known that kid was 14- hell, he looked dead. Not even miserable, just like he had lost the ability to feel anything at all. We worked out he wasn't completely deaf-maybe 70, 80% hearing loss. But it was like it took half of his senses away- and you've got to remember how wary Clint was. He couldn't hear people coming up behind him, he couldn't hear them speak. He couldn't hear the thud of his arrows onto the target. He had no way of making all that stuff in his head go away. He gave up.

On the 15th day, in the night, he left. And that was the last I ever saw of him."

Phil leaned back and rubbed his eyes wearily and took a moment to get himself in check. "Wow. Not much good happens to that kid, hu?" Kennedy grimaced again and nodded. "You really have no idea where Clint could be now?"

Kennedy shook his head. "No idea. His assassinations are worldwide so I guess he doesn't have place where he bases himself. And he'll get out of there once he's made his kills really quick- you could follow him across the globe and I recon you'd never even get a sight of him. Don't you have any other leads?"

Phil stood up and started pacing the length of the room, cracking his knuckles. "Nothing. The only way we even know Hawkeye is Clint Baron is because we've been tracking him for the last six months, pulling up everything we have on Hawkeye. The only link was his circus career, the archery act, his name and so on. Through this we found out that the circus Hawkeye was Clint Barton who grew up in Waverly, Iowa. But there are no other records of him past the age of fourteen. He doesn't have a passport- or if he does, it's fake. He doesn't have a bank account or even a phone, and there aren't any pictures of him since his school photo when he was nine."

Kennedy was silent for a moment and the only sound in the room was Phil's feet on the carpet. "But surely you have the files of his targets?"

Phil stopped pacing. "Why would that matter?"

"Well presumably he's freelance. But what if he's worked for the same man twice? If you get all the files together and see whether any of the targets have anything in common- it's a start at least."

Phil stared at him. "I hadn't thought of that. Do you have a fax machine?"

Kennedy frowned. "Sure, but if you're going to send all those files to my fax, I'll-"

But Phil wasn't listening. "I've got to go and make a call, turn on the machine."

Once outside, Phil dialled the number and listened to the phone ring on the other end. "Hello?" A man spoke with a broad Canadian accent

"Is this Eric?" Phil asked

"Sure, that Phil Coulson? Aren't you on some super secret mission behind the council's back and not meant to be making any contract with SHIELD?"

"I don't even want to know how you know all that, but I need to speak to Fury."

Eric sighed loudly. "I'm in the middle of a heart surgery."

"Eric, you wouldn't have a mobile phone in the operating theatre." Phil replied dryly.

Eric swore under his breath. "And you couldn't have used the main line like every other damn man in this place?"

"No, I'm on some super secret mission behind the council's back and not meant to be making any contract with SHIELD"

"Damn Phil, you're so snarky." On the other end of the line, Eric started walking.

Eric Yale was the head of SHIELD's infirmary. He was a sturdy, reliable man who didn't buckle under pressure- he and Phil had been friends for years. He could also be very stubborn and didn't especially excel in anything outside medicine- but he excelled in this fantastically, so Phil didn't think it really mattered. He was also one of the only people besides Phil who wasn't intimidated by Fury.

Phil was interrupted from his thoughts by a low, American growl. "What part of 'no help from SHIELD' do you not understand?"

"Sorry sir. But I need some files pulling up."

Fury sighed heavily. "What do you need?"

"The files of all of Barton's targets."

There was silence for a moment. "All 134 of them?"

"Yes sir."

"Joy. You want them emailed?"

"Faxed please, sir. Sent to Joseph Kennedy, one of Barton's circus associates."

"We'll get on it, stand by. Hell Coulson, you're gonna have to pay the guy back for ink and paper, and it's sure as hell is coming out of your paycheque."

Phil sighed. "Yes sir."

"Well Yale is jabbering on, something about not having free calls- that man has no respect, damn it- so I'm hanging up on you now. Good luck with whatever the hell you're up to."

Phil was about to reply when the line went dead.

By the time he got back inside the fax machine was already whirring away. Kennedy was giving Phil a death glare, which he ignored.

They stapled the files together and laid them across the floor. Kennedy seemed to decide to help even though Phil didn't ask, and Phil realised that although Barton sure had an awful lot of bad people in his life, he also had a good ones too. Stan, Jason and Kennedy were all willing to help, though Phil's more cynical side pointed out that if they had helped when they really needed to, Barton maybe wouldn't be in this mess. The three off them seemed to be the sort of people that would stand on the sidelines watching things happen and then help afterwards when it was almost too late.

It took Phil and Kennedy four hours of reading before a pattern began to emerge. "This man," Phil said, pointing at files, "these women and those three men all have some sort of connection with a businessman name Francis Hallard. The first man, Timothy Gale was a business man, as was Elizabeth Garrad and Finley Richards… Well Garrad was a businesswoman but you know what I mean. They're all in the area of cosmetics, maybe rivals? David Gates was a chemist, which I suppose could be connected to cosmetics."

"You think Francis Hallard hired Clint?" Kennedy asked.

Phil chewed his lip. "I assume so."

"It didn't take much working out- he didn't cover this up very well." Kennedy frowned.

"Bribery, I expect. With enough money, you can get out of anything. But Hallard is a big American business man, and shouldn't be too hard to find- looks like I'm off to New York."

"He'll be rich though- good security."

"I'm sure I'll manage." Phil replied dryly.

"Could you use someone to watch your back?" Kennedy asked, smiling slowly.

Phil frowned. "What are you suggesting?"

"Mr Coulson, I performed knife throwing acts in the biggest circuses all over America. And it got pretty rough out there- I recon I can handle a gun better than many of your fancy agents." Kennedy replied, chest swelling. "I don't think I can follow you after that, wherever you're going, but between you and me I was pretty swift at breaking and entering in my day, and I wager I haven't lost it quite yet."

Phil laughed. "Well, it would seem that you'd certainly be an asset. Be ready in half an hour- we've got a billionaire to kidnap."

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Ok, thanks for reading! Things start to get more interesting in the next few chapters, and you get to see Phil being a badass, which should be great. However I shouldn't be able to post the next chapter until Sunday night, but I'll upload two at once or something to make for it.

Please review, reviews are awesome and I'm open to advice. Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

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_Clint_

Clint wasn't certain how much blood he'd lost, but he didn't feel too great, to say the least. The dull headache had progressed to a pulsating mass of pain and his vision kept phasing in and out. His hearing also felt very off- sometimes he could hear everything crystal clear and other times it was like his was trapped behind a thick, glass wall. Clint had also realised that the combined blood loss and sleep deprivation was beginning to affect his already delicate mental state. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw one of his deceased targets- and Clint could remember every single on of them. In his early childhood, he had highly appreciated his phenomenal memory and due to it used to be good at school. Maybe this was also because he spent so much of his extra time there- often he literally stayed until the caretaker kicked him out. But after his father's car crash, things started to go down hill. He couldn't think, couldn't concentrate. With all the other things that were going on, such trivial matters such as science and maths seemed utterly pointless. Moore literally dominated his every living thought, and often his sleeping ones too. The only time he had been able to get out of his head was when he read, but even then, it wasn't at all effective. Reading made Clint realise that life he could have had. And somewhere along the line he had given up. The only thing he was certain of now was that if he was going out, he was going out on his own terms.

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_Phil_

After another stressful conversation with Fury via Eric's phone, Phil discovered that Hallard was currently taking a vacation in Colorado Springs. The 6 hour long journey started off well, with the two men talking of trivial things such as the weather, but before long they were planning how exactly to kidnap Francis Hallard. The life of a SHIELD operative was very diverse, and Phil had done this kind of thing before. Kennedy also seemed strangely adapt at planning the kidnapping, which was worrying but also useful, and the plan was finalised an hour before they arrived. Hallard was staying in a hotel in the west of Colorado Springs, and although he would have body guards, the business man wasn't that well protected. Hallard was actually more of a millionaire than a billionaire, and business men in the field cosmetics of weren't exactly high up on hit lists.

The hotel was posh; a large, sophisticated building that looked very much like a mansion. Phil debated over going all sneaky James Bond on his entry, but decided a more direct approach would be faster and easier.

He lent Kennedy one of his suits (a tight fit) and a fake FBI ID claiming that he was Sam Denver. He also decided to go a little "men in black" on the whole façade, and the two men walked into the hotel's plush reception in synch, wearing black sunglasses, and looking suitably threatening. Phil loved his job.

The receptionist eyed the men apprehensively, not only at their alarming appearances but at the abnormally late hour of their arrival. Phil flashed her his ID. "Phil Coulson, Sam Denver, FBI. We're here to speak with Francis Hallard, would you be able to tell us which room he's in?"

The woman sat their staring at them for a moment, wide eyed, before blinking forcefully. "Oh, um, of course sir." She tapped away at the keyboard for a moment. "He's in room B11, second floor. Would you like me to get someone to show you-"

Phil smiled kindly. "Thank you, but we can find our own way."

In the elevator the men prepared, checking guns had magazines and knives were sharp. They elevator door pinged open and two bodyguards standing outside A11 turned to see two heavily armed men dressed in black suits and sunglasses step out. They moved, but were too slow. Phil ducked under the first bodyguard's swinging fist and jabbed two fingers into the pressure point in his waist. The man gagged and dropped his hand from his belt, where he had been in the process of getting out his gun. Phil then swung the edge of his hand into the man's neck, and he crumpled to the floor. Phil turned to take out the other bodyguard only to find that he was already unconscious on the floor, with Kennedy leaning against the wall, looking smug.

Phil kicked open Hallard's door yelling, "FBI! Come out with your hands on your head!"

There was a flurry of movement in the kitchen. Phil crept forward slowly, Kennedy close behind. They were about to enter the room before a small, podgy man burst out. Phil caught him by his wrist and wrestled him onto the sofa. He kept his gun trained on him, and took his fake ID out again with his other hand. "FBI. If you co-operate, no one has to get hurt."

Hallard was maybe five foot five, chubby and pale. His skin was blotched with red patches and his shirt had sweat patches stained under his arms. He didn't look like billionaire in cosmetics.

"Francis Hallard?" Phil asked cautiously. The sweaty man nodded nervously.

"Mr Hallard, we're here to question you in connection with the murders of Timothy Gale, Elizabeth Garrad, Finley Richards and David Gates. Did you know of these people?"

Hallard shook his head vigorously, and Phil realised that his thick bright blond hair was a wig.

"Mr Hallard, believe it or not, we're not here to arrest you. We're trying to take out a branch of hit men, and need to know who you hired to kill these people. If you tell us what we need, we'll give you a week's head start before we start chasing you again." Phil knew full well that SHIELD would easily be able to catch Hallard again within a matter of days, and wasn't at all worried about letting him go.

Hallard's beady eyes darted between Phil and Kennedy for a moment, before he spoke in a hurried, frantic squeaky voice. "Gale, Garrad and Richards are rivals of mine. Business is bad, so much new technology, so many new methods. And theirs were just newer than mine. They had to go. And Gates was a scientist, said the face cream wouldn't work. Something about chemical reactions. And when I told him to keep quiet, he threatened not to."

Hallard sounded all too like a rich kid with too much power, which he took for granted. "We don't need to know this- well, we know it already anyway. We just need to know who you hired, and how." Phil said sharply.

Hallard swallowed. Phil supposed that whatever the assassin could do to was far worse than what Hallard expected the FBI to do. However, the man was stupid. "I hired the same guy for every hit. He proved his efficiency the first time so I relied on him for the others. He didn't tell me his name, only "Hawkeye"- I thought that was stupid 'till I learnt how he took out his targets. Archer- could shoot from a mile away and never miss."

"What did he look like?"

Hallard scratched his bristly chin. "I don't remember exactly. Short, blond. Too skinny, maybe. Young too, really young. Should have been in collage."

"How did you get in contact with him?"

Hallard swallowed heavily again, and didn't reply.

Phil leaned in closer. "Mr Hallard, you have murdered four people. That's 25 years to life- I can make it longer."

Hallard licked his lips nervously. "There's a number. You call one guy then get a new number from that guy, call that number, get a new number 'till finally you get an address. Apart from the numbers are different every time."

"All of the numbers? Or is the first one the same?" Phil started at Hallard intently, without blinking. Hallard swallowed again.

"The first one is the same."

"What's the number?"

Hallard didn't reply.

"Hallard, what's the number?" Phil snarled. Finally loosing his patience, he grabbed the man by his collar the pulled him forward sharply. Hallard licked his lips again and stuttered, "Give- give me a piece of paper. And a pen."

Phil let go of his collar to get paper and a pen out of his jacket pocket. He handed it to Hallard, who wrote a string of shaky numbers and gave it back.

Phil folded the piece of paper back into his jacket pocket and grabbed Hallard's collar again. "Thank you for your co-operation. But if you've lied to me, I'll hunt you down myself, understand?"

Hallard nodded vigorously.

"Good." Phil snapped, and then hit him round the forehead with his pistol. The man slumped back onto the sofa, unconscious.

Phil smiled grimly. "Right, let's get out of here."

.

They drove a short way before stopping off in a lay-by. Phil could feel Kennedy staring at him the entire way. "What?"

Kennedy opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, before saying, "You're such a badass! And I had _no_ idea!"

Phil smirked. "Please- you haven't seen anything yet."

Kennedy's eyes widened almost comically.

Phil forced his smile away. "Anyway. How much further are you going with this?"

Kennedy frowned. "Well what are you going to do? Hire him?"

Phil chewed his lips cautiously. "I'm going to use all the numbers they give me until I actually talk to someone. Then I'm going to try and specifically ask to hire Barton. If this doesn't work, I'll interrogate whoever I talk to get his whereabouts."

"And what if they won't tell you?"

Phil looked into Kennedy's eyes. "They will." He replied firmly. Kennedy winced. "Well I really do _not_ want to see you angry, but you could need a hand. By the sound of things you're walking into even more danger, and you could do with someone to watch your back. But after you find out how to get Clint, I'm going to leave. I don't think he'll want to see me, and what happens next is between you and him. Having me around won't help."

Phil nodded. "Thank you." He then got out his phone, and the piece of paper Hallard had given him. The phone rung just once before being picked up. Phil waited for someone to speak, but after the line remained silent he spoke first. "I'm in need of your services."

There was more silent, before a man with a deep, rough voice spoke. "I will give you a number, you ring it, understand?" The man didn't give Phil a chance to reply, but began to list out a long number of digits. Finally, he said, "And if you double cross us, know that you will not succeed, and you will never be found." And then the line went blank.

Kennedy raised his eyebrows. "Well that was intense."

Phil didn't reply, but rang the given number. The process was repeated but with a different phone number seven times, with the same sinister threat. Finally, on the seventh call he was directed to an actual person, not a messenger boy. "So, you need someone taking out?" A man spoke immediately after picking up the phone in a thick, Russian drawl.

"Yes." Phil replied firmly, careful to keep the wariness out of his voice- in his entire career at SHIELD, Phil couldn't remember a time where he had done things so far outside the law. He was currently hiring an assassin- SHIELD usually provides the assassins, and even then, they're assassinating the people who actually need to be assassinated. "But I'm in need of a particular skill set. I want this done unusually."

"Unusually?" Although the voice was kept free of emotion, Phil could almost hear curiosity.

"There's talk of a man named Hawkeye. Do you know of him?"

The voice chuckled slowly. "Hawkeye can be unreliable. And he is currently… unavailable"

Phil tensioned at this, and beside him Kennedy sat up straighter. "Unreliable? How so?"

"I have received a complaint from another client. They say he refused to kill a target."

This was news to Phil. He had believed Barton to be a heartless killer only after the money. "Sir, I can assure you that with the amount I will pay him, he will not refuse this one."

The man seemed to perk up at the mention of money. "How much are you willing to pay?"

Phil chewed his lips. "Five million."

There was a pause, and then the Russian laughed. "Sir, Hawkeye may not be able to return to the field. And five million is certainly not enough to tempt his… friends to let him go."

Phil hesitated. Although SHIELD were a covert organisation receiving decent funds from various governments, they didn't have the adequate amount of money to hire pretend to hire a master assassin, especially as there wasn't actually a target. Phil had been given five million dollars on a temporary loan, meaning that when Phil returned to SHIELD, whether or not he returned with Clint Barton, he must return with five million dollars. So basically if he was going to give away the money, he was going to have to steal it back. But at the same time, Clint Barton _needed_ to be saved.

"I can give you five million before. Then I meet Hawkeye, he takes out the target and I will give you five million afterwards. Directly to you, not him. Meaning you can keep the money for all I care- as long as he takes the kill." Phil said slowly.

There was more silence on the other side of the line. "This must be a big target. We do not usually receive such payment. Why are you so eager to hire one particular assassin?" The Russian asked, sounding amused.

"I just want it done right. I need to send out a message."

The Russian laughed. "You are a rich man quick to spend his wealth. But that is your loss not mine. You are in America, yes? The accent, you know. An American cannot hide his accent, no matter how hard he tries." The man laughed again. "Tomorrow morning, you will meet a man in Los Angelis at 1800 hours. He will be in the car park on the outskirts of the city in the Topanga area, Latitude, Longitude 34.039677,-118.580582 . You will give him the first instalment and he will give you a plane ticket. You will board the plane from Los Angeles airport, and when you arrive you will meet Hawkeye. If you are late, he will leave. There will be no one else there- if you do not come alone, he will kill you. If you do not pay enough, he will kill you. If you double cross him, he will kill you. You understand?"

Phil nodded even over the phone. "I understand."

The line went dead.

Phil put his phone put his phone down and let out an uneasy breath. Beside him, Kennedy was looking very pale. "Do you have five million dollars?" He asked slowly.

Phil winced. "Technically."

"Technically?"

"Well I have to return it. It's loan."

Kennedy stared at Phil for a moment, and then shook his head. "I do _not_ like this plan."

Phil grinned shakily. "Me neither. But it's all I've got."

"_You've_ got?"

Phil nodded. "You heard the Russian- I have to come alone. You can't come with me on this one."

Kennedy sighed. "I suppose."

"I'll be ok. Whoever I'm meeting will only be a hired hand- not anyone high up, so I'll be able to get out if I need to. Other than the money, this is a decent plan. I find Barton and we run for it without making the second payment."

"And how will you get back the first?" Kennedy asked sceptically. "I'll work that out along the way."

Kennedy sighed heavily. "LA is a fifteen hour journey. And as it's…" He glanced at his watch. "One thirty AM- if you want to be at LA by 6 o'clock tomorrow evening, you'd better make a move."

Phil nodded. "Well thank you for your help. I'm sorry, but I can't give you a lift back- Nebraska is the opposite direction to LA."

Kennedy smirked. "No worries, I can get a train. And it's been fun. I haven't done this kind of thing for years."

"Kennedy, I am still a government agent. If I wasn't trying to hire an assassin, I would probably arrest you." Phil replied dryly. Kennedy had revealed enough for Phil to know that the man had had a… debatably legal lifestyle.

Kennedy laughed, and then grew seriously. "But really Mr Coulson, thanks. Not for the fun of interrogating a millionaire, but for helping Clint. I don't know what state he'll be in when you find him, but please, try to help him whether he agrees to come with you or not."

Phil nodded determinedly. "I'm going to do the very best I can."

Kennedy smiled. "Well that's all that I could ask of you." He got out of the car, but hesitated before closing the door. "I wasn't certain about showing you these before, as it felt too private. But I want to save Clint, and to do that you need to be convinced that he can turn himself around." Kennedy reached into his bag and brought out a small stack of photos. "The dates are written on the back. I'm doing this so if you find Clint, you can see the child in him, not just the master assassin."

Phil nodded slowly, taking the photographs. "Thank you."

"And I don't know what kind of secret lifestyle Clint will have if he comes with you, but if you can, I would be mighty pleased to know that he's doing ok." With a final nod, Kennedy closed the door. It was only after the man was half way down the road and gave a cheery wave that Phil realised that Kennedy was still wearing the suit. _His_ suit. Phil sighed heavily, but figured, as he drove away, that as he had left the man practically stranded about 400 miles from home with only the clothes on his back and whatever he brought with him, he could keep the suit.

.

Once he was an hour out from LA, Phil called Fury through Eric, who swore at him a multitude of times before pelting up through the Helicarrier to find the man.

Phil knew that he had broken the "No-contact-with-SHIELD" rule three times now, but he decided that as he was going to meet an unknown man and give him five million dollars before boarding a plane to an unknown destination to hopefully meet a volatile, angry teenage assassin and then run as fast as hell away from a violent unidentified Russian with said teenage assassin after somehow stealing five million dollars off said violent Russian, Fury should at least know where he was planning to do.

Fury listened to the entire plan before saying, "I genuinely think you are going to die, Phil." Fury was notorious for getting to the point often in a brash and abrupt manner, but Phil knew- especially with the use of his first name- that the man did care about the wellbeing of his agents- not for the good of the organisation, simply for their own safety. At the same time he knew that their jobs were dangerous, to say the least, and there was no use shying away from the fact that it was very likely that a field agent would die before the age of 40. And this was why Fury was such a good leader. He wasn't brash or abrupt, he was just to the point, and had his priorities straight.

"I'll try my best not to."

"Good." Fury replied. "In that case, I'll see you when you return. Once you arrive, call me again so I can get a team on standby for you. And once you've got Barton, call SHIELD- not me directly, the council are going to have to find out what we're doing sooner or later- and we're pick you up. But remember Coulson, don't let your emotions get in the way. If he can't become an assassin, take him out, regardless of his past."

Phil swallowed. "I understand, sir."

"Good luck agent." And the line went dead.

The car park the Russian had talked about was easy enough to find, and it was empty as he was told it would be. Having arrived an hour early, Phil waited until a man on a motorbike roared in. Although he was dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, Phil could tell by his stance, expression and of course the gun in the waistband of his trousers that this was the man he was meant to meet.

Phil put on his sunglasses and stepped out of the car, the briefcase containing five million dollars in his hand. The man took off his helmet and hung it on his handle bars, nodded at Phil and walked towards him. He carried a large, brown envelope which he gave to Phil in exchange for the briefcase. Phil felt a panicked pang as he parted with five million dollars, and wondered how on earth he was going to get it back. He didn't know what would happen to him if he returned to SHIELD without it, but he was fairly certain that it would include endless fines and being fired. Maybe Fury would shoot him and then use his life insurance to pay back some of the debt.

"The envelope contains all you need- the plane ticket and the information." The man said in a strong American accent. "But be warned that you are now in business with us. Do not back out now, because we will find you, and we will hurt you."

Phil raised an eyebrow. "I've just given you five million dollars. I'm not going to back out now."

The man smirked, and nodded. "Well, have a good trip."

Phil made his way back to the car, feeling the man's gaze scouring the back of his neck. He made sure to drive a couple of miles before pulling over in a lay-by and opening the envelope.

The piece of paper told him to go to Los Angeles airport and take a plane to Paris. Once in Paris, he would stay in the "Hôtel du Home Modena" under than name of Karl Jackson, where he would be approached by another man who would tell him where to find Hawkeye.

The whole thing also sounded very sketchy, but Phil was glad to at least know where he was going. Fury had instructed an agent to meet him at the air port to take his car, and Phil considered trying to give Fury a message through the agent now that he knew where he was going. However, he pulled into the Los Angeles airport to find a very, very grumpy Eric Yale waiting for him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Phil asked once he got out of the car.

Eric scowled. "Fury said he didn't want people to know about this whole mess due to the gossip that can go round despite the confidentiality rules. So he said that as I already know, I may as well pick up your damn car so that he wouldn't have to let another agent in on this. And he wants me to be on the team ready to pick you up in case you need a medic. So I have to follow your ass wherever you're going, even if you're going half way across the world to bloody Alaska."

Despite how intense the whole assignment had become, Phil burst out laughing simply due to Eric's sulking five-year-olds' face. "He's just punishing you for sticking your nose other people's top secret business, isn't he?"

Eric didn't reply, but folded his arms and scowled more. Phil smirked. "Well, you can tell him that I'm headed for Paris. I'll be staying in the "Hôtel du Home Modena" until I'm told what to do next."

Eric sighed through his nose. "You know, a week ago I was the head medic in the entirety of this damn organisation- not just the Helicarrier but the _whole_ _of freaking SHIELD_. How did I end up as a messenger boy?"

Phil smirked. "By sticking your nose other people's top secret business." He turned serious. "Well anyway, my plane leaves in half an hour, so I'd better be off." He threw Eric the car keys. "See you in Paris."

Eric sighed again, looking positively murderous. "See you in Paris."

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Ok I got back earlier than I expected so hello, and here is another chapter. Sorry there wasn't much Clint in this, but there should be an awesome action scene coming up in either the next chapter or the one after. But I'm afraid I won't be able to post again until Tuesday, sorry. So, until then, was Phil badass enough? Do you have any specific requests as to what should be in the photographs? Thanks for reading and thanks for the reviews! See you on Tuesday :)


	5. Chapter 5

_._

_._

_Phil_

Phil managed to get through customs even with three hand guns and numerous knives thanks to SHIELD's superior technology, and boarded the plane.

Once on board, he took out the pictures from his bag. They were grainy and unclear. The first was taken in 1996, showing the whole circus sat or stood in front of what Phil assumed was the main tent. There were about 30 people, and they all looked like very… distinctive characters, with large handle bar mustaches and garish clothes. Kennedy had scrawled a few names over the people he believed to be important, including Barney, Jacques and Clint. The former was stood to the left with the photo beside the most normal looking people in the group. Phil assumed these were the stagehands. Barney was head and shoulders above the others, tall and formidable.

Jacques was standing at the center back. He was tall and thin, but with wide shoulders and an untrustworthy look about him. Clint was then sat cross legged at the front of the picture beside a slim looking woman with the build of a gymnast and a small group of other boys that didn't look like performers. Although the picture was too small for Phil to see his facial expression, his body language was tense, wary and closed off.

The second picture, taken in 1997 depicted a large, seemingly empty field other than a wooden target and an 11 year old boy. Clint was stood with his bow drawn so the string was touching his cheek. Although Phil didn't know much about archery, his posture looked fantastic- his back was straight and his elbow pulled up to his shoulder, and yet he looked positively relaxed with his expression was calm and empty.

The second to last photograph as of Clint walking off a stage- it looked like one of the rehearsals that Kennedy had talked about. His body language was relaxed and at ease. He was looking at someone off camera with something that wasn't quite a grin, more of a smirk, but either way, he looked happy. Phil remembered cynically that this expression would only last for approximately 30 seconds before fading.

The final picture was more of an accurate representation of Clint's description from Kennedy and Jason. It was taken in the year 2000, but presumably before Barney caused Clint to go deaf. It showed a brightly colored wagon pilled with fabric that looked very similar to the main tent canvas. It looked like the circus had been packed up and was moving from one spot to another. On the back of the wagon sat Clint Barton, one knee drawn up to his chest with his arms wrapped around it, and the other one swinging freely off the vehicle. He was looking off into the distance pensively, but his expression was disturbing- It was dark, angry and showed a strange sense of someone being calmly furious. There was also a sense of frustration and sadness there, and the boy looked utterly lonely. How someone could even show that many emotions at one time Phil didn't know, but he now understood what Kennedy meant by Clint having too much going on in his head.

Suddenly feeling tired, Phil put the photos back into his bag. Clint Barton was giving him the sense of slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Clint seemed to be getting further and further away from being able to be helped, and Phil was loosing hope at learning of each stage of his life. At the same time his determination of helping him was growing, but could he be helped? Phil realized he really needed to sleep- it was the only way to stop his busy mind buzzing away.

Although he didn't like to let his guard down around other people, he had scrutinized the other passengers and none of them seemed remotely dangerous. Also, he hadn't slept in two days and wanted to arrive in Paris fit enough to fight in case worst came to worst.

He woke half an hour before the end of the journey and attempted to get his wits together. He was beginning to worry about how he was going to get the money back, but was aware that the most important thing would be getting Clint, even though the council might not agree.

After collecting his luggage, Phil took a bus to the outskirts of the city. The envelope had contained a map detailing exactly where the hotel was, but it hadn't mentioned that it was situated in one of the dodgier parts of town. The streets were narrow and dark, with litter in the gutters and a bitter smell in the air.

Phil was showed him to his room, which had been booked under the name of Karl Jackson. As he made his way up the four flights of stairs- there wasn't an elevator- Phil wondered whether all of the Russian's clients were told to stay in this very hotel- what if he stayed in the same room of another man who had tried to hire a killer. It was a funny thought, especially as he would be sleeping in the same bed as this other metaphorical man.

The room itself was small and dreary, with a sagging bed and a tiny, grimy window that have a nice view of the dirty street below. Phil was distracted from all this however, by the sight of a horribly familiar looking brief case lying on the bed. Beside it was an envelope, which Phil tore open.

_To Whom It May Concern:_

_Four hours ago at 1900 Hawkeye escaped from our captivity. We have therefore returned the payment, five million dollars in cash. We apologize for any inconvenience caused, though we advice you to contact us on the number bellow to arrange another contract. This hotel room is booked for three days and you are welcome to stay- it is located in such a lovely neighborhood. _

_Yours Sincerely, _

_Irina Tchoverick_

_PS. Hawkeye wasn't in a state to get very far._

Phil opened the briefcase only to find that it did indeed contain all of the money. He collapsed onto the sagging bed, suddenly full of so many mixed emotions.

One hand, he now had the money back. On the other hand, he had lost Clint Barton. After about a week of scouring America, and now France to find him, discovering countless horrible things about him and realizing that he actually felt _pity_ for the assassin, he had lost him. After learning of Barney and Harold Barton's abusive tendencies, of Peter Moore and Jason Carter, of Stan and Jacques and Carson and Joseph Kennedy and Francis Hallard, he had lost him.

Also, Phil had a nasty suspicion of who the Russian had been. Ivan Tchoverick was a Russian assassin trained by the Soviet Union only to desert and become a freelance assassin. Ten years ago, after SHIELD had begun to express an interest in him, the man had seemingly vanished. It was all too possible that Irina was somehow connected to Ivan. Suddenly, the damp, squashy room was beginning to feel too small. Phil needed to get out.

Surprisingly the room did actually have a makeshift fire escape, and Phil managed the tight squeeze through the tiny window and climbed down the ladder built into the outside wall. Once he his the ground he started walking in no particular direction, mind buzzing.

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_Clint_

The adrenalin that rose after Clint began to plan his escape pushed away the fatigue, and light-headedness and he found himself once more in his crystal clear assassin mindset. The only thing on his mind was the task ahead of him- no emotions, no distractions. All he had to do was to wait for the opportune moment, which surely enough, soon came. Tchoverick entered the room not an hour after Clint had made up his mind over what he was about to do. The Russian frowned slightly at Clint's expression- his exhaustion had vanished and was replaced with a dark, black picture of grim determination. Before he could say anything, Clint twisted his left hand to dislocate his thumb in order to pull his hand out of the straps. He then ripped the strap of his right hand, and as the Russian lunged at him, he grabbed the older man's head by his crown and his chin, twisted sharply and dropped him to the floor. He ripped off the straps on his feet and tore out the IV, ignoring the blood spurting down his arm. He stepped over the body of the dead Russian and walked out of the door.

He was greeted by four heavily armed men at the end of the corridor, but dealt with them quickly and took their weapons. However an alarm seemed to have been raised and Clint could hear heavy boots thundering round the corner. He took off at a run- although he had previously believed that he was being held underground, he now suspected he was in some kind of tower block building. After a brief moment of consideration, Clint decided to head upstairs- he had always preferred being up high.

Clint took the first staircase he could find, but had only climbed one flight before running into several more guards. He grabbed the first one by his belt and shirt, tossing him over the edge of the stairwell. He punched the next one in the sternum and pushed the palm of his hand into the base of the third man's nose.

By now he was nearing the top of the building. He exited the staircase to find himself in a large, bare room with wall to ceiling glass windows on every wall. He whirled around frantically- other than going back down the stairs which would now be swamped by guards, there was no way out. Suddenly he stilled. The surrounding buildings were maybe two meters below the floor he was standing on, and this was probably going to be the craziest thing Clint had ever attempted.

He took a couple of steps back from the window. Surely it was just like the trapeze- but without anyone to catch him.

Clint took of running. Time seemed to slow as he hit the window, the glass splintering into a million different tiny pieces, each one catching the evening sun in flashes of silver before falling into the street below. For a moment Clint was in the air, suspended hundreds of feet off the ground.

And then he hit the opposite roof, rolling and forcing air back into his lungs. He pulled himself up, remembering that he hadn't pushed his thumb back into place and didn't yet have time too- behind him, men in black were spilling out of Tchoverick's building and onto the street. He took off running again, his feet curling over the edge of the roof and pushing himself off. For another moment he was in the air again, before hitting the wall off the opposite building, catching himself by the tips of his fingers on a window sill. He swung himself to the right, grabbing onto a drainpipe and slid down.

Clint hit the ground. He found himself in a narrow alley way, the close walls either side making the unfriendly footsteps even more threatening. Clint had no idea how Tchoverick's men had found him so fast.

His speed was one thing Clint had on top of anybody, but even the adrenaline couldn't hold off blood loss and exhaustion for that long. He made it barely four more streets before he could hear the footsteps behind him. Bullets hit the wall beside his head as he whirled round the corner and catapulted into a man in a suit.

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_Phil_

Phil's mind was buzzing so loudly he hadn't heard the gunshots until he was just a street away. Why had the money been returned? Presumably because Tchoverick assumed that Phil would simply try to hire someone else, especially as he was "a rich man quick to spend his wealth". But what was wrong with Barton? It sounded as if Tchoverick had managed to get hold of him after he refused to kill a target. So where would he be? And why on earth would an assassin refuse to kill a target? And how was Irina Tchoverick related to Ivan Tchoverick? Phil knew he should call Fury, but didn't feel as if he had his head in enough of an order to participate in a decent conversation. If this had been approved by the council and was in a smaller area, SHIELD could have closed off the exits such as the roads and airports, and just manually search the city. But this was Paris, and the council assumed that Phil was just trying to kill Barton. The whole thing was an utter mess.

He was torn completely from his thoughts by a bullet hitting the wall behind him not five inches from his head. Not a moment later he was barreled into by a young man with a wild dirty blond hair. They both fell to the ground, the younger man rolling to the left, hitting the wall and pulling a gun out of the waistband of his trousers. Spurred by this, Phil mirrored him and turned to see a multitude of armed men.

He took down the first five men with bullets and then moved onto his fists. The men were dressed in mismatched clothing and seemed to be nothing but hired hands, therefore weren't too hard to take down. Phil roundhouse kicked one in the chest and sent him tumbling into the men behind. There was a blur of movement to his right, and another man was taken down by a flurry of violent, fast yet precise movements. The young man proceeded to fire bullets with astounding accuracy and four more men fell. Then, the alley way was empty.

The man twisted round and aimed a punch at Phil. But suddenly his movements had become sloppy and slow. Phil caught his fist, and was faced with none other than Clint Barton.

Phil had never been more thankful for his strict training than that moment, and didn't melt into a puddle of shock.

Clint stared at him blankly before going limp. His eyes rolled back into his head and he would have collapsed if Phil hadn't caught him. He lowered the kid to the floor slowly, where he sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them with his head resting on his forearms. Clint wore a torn gray hoodie and black cargo trousers torn at the knees. His trainers were battered and he had a serrated knife stuck in the waistband of his trousers. Phil crouched in front of him. "Hey kid." He said quietly.

Clint raised his head from his arms, blinking blearily. Almost subconsciously, he raised his gun which had previously been abandoned on the floor and cocked it unsteadily. Carefully, Phil pulled it out of his shaking hands. Clint just stared blankly.

"My name's Phil Coulson, and I work for an organisation called SHIELD. And I'm here to… I'm here to help you."

Clint stared again, and his eyes were beginning to alarm Phil. They were such a picture of sculptured blank, lack of emotion they were terrifying. Yet at the same time, possibly due to his exhaustion, it wasn't quiet working. Although his eyes were blank, they were like curtains drawn with a light on behind them. Behind Clint's eyes Phil could see anger and fear and uncertainty and betrayal and so many other things it hurt too look. But most off all, Clint looked empty.

Clint dropped his head back onto his knees, and as he did so, Phil caught a glimpse of a hearing air behind his left ear. Phil felt a sudden burst of anger towards a man who would deafen his own brother. This spread to a father who would mercilessly beat his own child and another man who was entrusted to care for parent-less children only to sexually abuse them. Then there were Edith, Stan, Rose, Kennedy, Jason and all the other boys as the orphanage who knew full well what was happening to Clint but did nothing to stop it. And the government in Iowa who worked out what was happening at Waterloo Home for Boys _too damn late_, and the council who looked at Clint Barton only to see the assassin, not the child inside. And that was what mattered most- Clint Barton was only a child that no one ever did the right thing for. And Phil Coulson was so determined to be the one who finally did something good for him.

Phil laid a hand on Clint's shoulder. The boy stiffened, but didn't move away simply because he knew there was no point, and he was too tired.

"Clint, I've been told to find you because my boss things you will be an asset. SHIELD is a covert agency. I was told to find out whether you would work for us, or whether you were just another assassin. So I went back to the beginning. I met your father, and I talked to Stan, the old man who lived across the street. Then I talked to Jason Carter and Joseph Kennedy. I found Francis Hallard and he gave me a phone number. I called that number, and then all the numbers that followed until I talked to Ivan Tchoverick. I met a man in Los Angeles and gave him five million dollars- in return he gave me a plane ticket and reserved a hotel in Paris. Then I came to France and into the hotel room only to find a brief case containing five million dollars and a letter saying that you had escaped. Then I didn't know what to do. So I wondered around, and I've found you. And I know Clint- I don't know everything but I recon I know more than anyone else. I knew about Barney and Harold and Moore, about the Swordsman and your ears. And now I'm here to help you."

Clint looked up again, only to shake his head. "Leave me alone." His voice was hoarse and rough, but also so empty and full of despair. Somewhere along the line, Clint Barton had given up. He tried to get up but Phil's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"Clint… Clint, please, don't give up now. I just want to help you Clint, I promise. I'm not going to hurt you like everyone else did."

Suddenly, something inside Clint seemed to break. The walls around him shattered, probably because he was too tried to hold them up, and Phil could suddenly see all the emotion inside. There something almost like sadness, but sadness when it had been felt for so long it was just accepted- it wasn't an emotion anymore, it was part of someone's personality. There was hopelessness too, an expression so void of hope and determination that it was simply empty. There was fear mixed with acceptance- Clint seemed to think that Phil would hurt him in some way, but didn't try to fight it as it was inevitable. It was just something that happened, as common and accepted as breathing. And now there was no anger- Clint Barton had completely given up. This wasn't a heartless assassin- this was a child that had been abused for so long he had forgotten that kindness existed.

Phil sighed and gritted his teeth in order to get his own emotions under control. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for everything. I'm so sorry that Stan didn't stop Harold. I'm so sorry Barney or the other boys didn't stop Moore. I'm so sorry for Jacques and Barney but most of all I'm so sorry for not getting here earlier. I'm so sorry I couldn't have stopped all those other people myself"

Fury seemed to suddenly take over Clint's face, and he pushed Phil's hand off his shoulder. "Get the _hell_ off me." He spat. "I don't need your help. I don't need _anyone's_ help." He gripped the wall behind him and heaved himself to his feet. But before he could leave Phil grabbed his shoulder again and pushed him against the wall. "Listen. Just listen for me for five minutes. Look at what they all did to you Clint. You're just a kid, but where did that kid go?"

Clint bared his teeth. "They killed him. They all killed him and now all I have to do is just have to kill what's left."

This knocked the air out of Phil's lungs and he struggled to steady himself. "Clint, don't give up. Hell you didn't give up before, not completely. I think you just tried less, and that's a big difference. You could have ended it all so long ago but you didn't. Don't give up now. You're so close Clint. Things can get better, I promise."

And suddenly Clint was shouting. "I _tried_, I _did_, I did I _swear_! I tried _again_ and again even after all the things that happened but it never gets better. I tried to not give up but it wore me down, and there's nothing left of the old me now." His voice got quieter and quieter until it was just a whisper, and he slid down the wall until he was sitting down again.

Phil crouched down again and looked Clint in the eye. "The old you isn't gone, Clint. He's just hidden. You hid him away because he gets hurt easier, right? It's so much easier to hurt a child than an emotionless, empty assassin. But don't forget that you're only 17, Clint. You're still a child. And you're not emotionless- you've just shown me that. But I also know that you don't give up- if you gave up easily you wouldn't be here. And I think that even now there's a tiny part of you that doesn't want to give up yet. So hold onto that part, Clint, because I'm giving you another chance, and you should take it. I'm giving you a chance to be better and stronger, but I'm also giving you a chance to be a child again. Don't give up. Not yet. Not when you're so close." Phil stood and held out his hand. Clint stared at him long and deep, almost as if he was trying to analyze him for threats and lies, trying to work out whether going with Phil would hurt him even more than he was hurting already. But at the same time Phil could see it in his eyes, Phil could see that Clint Barton that could still laugh when his father beat him, could still laugh even with Moore and could still play like a child at the circus even though really, he never had the chance to be one. Clint Barton didn't give up. And in actual fact, he hadn't given up yet. Not fully.

Clint reached up to take Phil's hand, and the later pulled him to his feet. But although Clint hadn't given up, his body had finally had enough, and his eyes rolled up into his head again. Phil caught Clint as his knees gave way, and pulled the kid over his shoulder.

Then he reached into his jacket pocket to get out his phone, forgetting about calling SHIELD- he know Eric would get the message though faster. However Fury, not Eric picked up after it rung only once. "Nick? What are you doing here?"

Fury sounded amused. "First name terms- are you dying? I decided to come along for the ride."

Phil ignored the question. "I need an extraction team."

"Where are you?"

"Somewhere in Paris." Phil was too tired to even add sarcasm.

Fury, however, was not. "Helpful. We'll track your phone." There was muffled yelling in the background as Fury ordered someone to track the signal. "Do you have the kid?"

"Yes."

"Do you need a medic?"

"Yeah. Hypothermia, exhaustion and hell of a lot of other things. Oh and the Russian was Irina Tchoverick whom I suspecting is somehow connected to Ivan Tchoverick"

Fury was silent for a moment. "OK, we need to get you out of there fast. We've got your position. Keep an eye on the sky."

Phil waited until a black shape could be seen against the sky, which was a lighter shade of black, and adjusted Clint in his arms so we was carrying him more bridal style.

A winchman descended from the craft above, strapping Clint into the harness and ascending again. Moments later, he returned for Phil.

By the time Phil was inside the Quinjet, Clint had already been stripped off his ragged, dirty clothes and changed into dry clothes that were far too big for him. He was strapped to a stretcher on the left side of the jet under the care of Eric in his stern Doctor Yale mode. Phil walked towards him as he said, "Exhaustion, dehydration, hypothermia, hasn't eaten for God knows how long and is almost showing signs of blood loss- which is confusing as he doesn't have any obvious injuries other than his arm. Oh, and a dislocated thumb. Hell, I haven't seen stuff like this outside battlefields, and even then, they don't look half starved and twelve years olds.

For once, Phil wasn't in the mood for Eric's brash humor. "Will he be ok?"

Eric was clearly about to make another joke before he saw Phil's expression and softened. "Yeah, he should be fine." He said quietly as he fixed an oxygen mask over Clint's face.

Fury pulled Phil to the other side of the jet, and he collapsed onto the floor, his back against the wall and his eyes closed. Fury slowly sat down next to him. "What the hell happened out there? You look like someone just bitch slapped you round the face."

Phil ran his hands through his hair. "Hell, Nick. That kid is a mess."

Fury frowned. "Well the world's leading child physiologist does owe me a few favors."

Phil laughed bitterly. "And hell, he's gonna need her."

Fury nodded. "Then we'll get her. Don't give up, Phil. We've got him now and he's gonna be ok. Whether or not he becomes and agent, we can still help him out."

"Does the council know about all this?"

Fury smirked. "I broke the news to them before I left."

"How'd they take it?"

"Could have been worse, could have been better. But they say that if he becomes an asset, then he can be cleared of all charges."

"And if he doesn't?"

"The council are not fully up my ass, Phil. I still have a little control. If he doesn't, we'll take things into our own hands. But he will Phil, just wait and see. I'm telling you, the world hasn't seen anything of Clint Barton yet."

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Wow. OK, that was intense to write, and I also ended up being faced with a massive dilemma. I wasn't sure how to do the meeting between Phil and Clint and ended up writing two different versions, this one, and another one with a lot more hurt and comfort. But I decided that the latter was too off character for Clint and I didn't want him to open up to Phil quite yet, so I used this one instead. If you want, I'll post it anyway was a oneshot because otherwise it's just hanging around on my computer, but I'll only post it if you actually want to read it :)

So yes, this is the end of Too Far Gone. However, this is going to be part of a series with at least two parts, but I'm going to post part 2 as a different story to embed the separation between them. I know vaguely what I want to happen, and should be posting soon-ish- Thursday at the closest, but more likely Saturday or next Sunday. But I'll post a preview for it in this story so you know what's coming up. It'll be a lot more of Phil and Clint learning to trust each other, and there'll be more comfort to the hurt.

Also, that is not the end of Tchovericks! One of them will definitely return in later stories, so you haven't seen the last of them yet.

So thank you for reading! Also thanks for the ideas for the photos, I used some of them and they were great! Please review, and watch this space! Adios :)


	6. Preview

Part 2- The preview

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Clint was still consumed by a gnawing fear that he wouldn't be good enough; he would fail and then be punished. But the paperwork had been finalized, and Clint had been entered- there was no going back.

Prompted by these new fears, Clint's nightmares began to gain intensity, featuring more frequently The Swordsman, who wasn't often in Clint's dreams. Clint slept less and less, and gradually began to return to his quieter, more reclusive self. Both Jane and Phil were worried, but neither could work out a cause for this- per usual, Clint was giving them no insight whatsoever to what was going on inside his head.

Things only became more serious when, a week after Clint had entered, he began to dream of his mother. At first they were simple dreams, some of the few happy moments Clint could remember of her such as his fifth birthday when she brought him cake or when she read to him in hospital after he broke his ankle. They then progressed to Clint seeing her at the end of an alley way, running to catch her but could never run fast enough, or seeing her in a crowd of busy people but not being able to find her again. Clint knew exactly where the dreams were heading.

It was after this that Clint stopped sleeping all together.

At first it was easy- Clint had always had trouble sleeping, so could cope well enough. But after a while it began to effect him- his reaction times slowed and Phil got in more and more hits whist sparring. After a week his body craved sleep than ever, driving him to midnight archery practice- archery was the only thing that left his mind crystal clear. Clint had been at the range since one in the morning. Six hours later, it happened.

_The wire tenses_

_Back muscles tighten and lock_

_Slow your breathing_

_Exhale _

_Relax your hand_

Release.

Thud.

Clint's breath caught in his throat. The bow slid from his hands and clattered to the floor.

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I HAVE NOT DIED. Ok so this is a little more than 2 weeks- I never knew this would take so long. However, I haven't been slacking- in the last week especially, I've been working like a crazy. And part 2 is now so nearly finished!

This scene appears around the middle of the story, but I was careful not to give much away. Clint's thought process whist shooting are from Hawkeye: My life as a weapon.

I don't really know how to summarise it, but I will be posting chapter 1 by next Tuesday at the very, very latest. And I actually mean it this time, because I have no excuse for delaying other than dying or losing all my work, as it is 94% finished (whoop whoop).

However, I really can't think of what to call it, so if anyone has any title ideas, help would be really appreciated. The story revolves around trust and childhood, that sort of thing so it would be great if the title was related to those themes. If I use your idea, I'll give you credit somewhere!

So thank you for sticking with me. The very very long wait will be rewarded- I'm very proud of part 2, and I really hope you like it.

Thanks!


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